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The name “Spindrift” comes from a lot of different places.

It’s a beautiful little word of Scottish origin, referring to both the spray blown up from the surface of the sea or the powdery snow blown off a mountain top.

Born and raised on the south coast of Britain, I now find myself living on a mountainside in the French Pyrénées, raising a joyful little boy with my French sweetheart.

Where salt in the air and sand between my toes always felt like the smell and feel of home for me, now the scent of pine trees on a summer’s afternoon and the distant tinkling of sheep bells are also anchor points for me. Where once I missed the energy of a blustery walk along the seashore on a stormy day, now I find I miss the familiar contours of the mountains when I am away from them too long.

And so for someone who came from the sea and now finds herself settled on a mountainside, Spindrift seems the perfect way to bring  these two threads together.

For me, “Spindrift” also signifies a steady but intentionally slow movement. Not seeking to rush, but rather letting oneself be gently carried along by the gentle pace of things; love, nature, life. It’s a value we actively seek to incorporate into every aspect of our daily lives, and one I would love this space to embody.

Finally, that drifting also encompasses the idea of unexpected deviation from an intended course. I would never, could never have expected the shape of my life to be turning out as it is now. But here I am, abandoning myself to the natural flow of things.


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out of the fog

sheep to skeinIt is already October. The early morning mists of autumn gather around our mountains overnight, hanging like a thick veil across the sky when we wake in a haze sometime before dawn.

Already a year has gone by since I moved into this space, when our baby was just three months old. I had so many intentions and plans, all of which have steadily fallen by the wayside as the year has unfolded. Because although the words, the motivation and the dreams have been there deep down inside, I’ve been struggling to let them out into the fresh air. Partly because I’ve been undecided about just how much I want to document and share about our daily life as three. But mainly because in the grand scheme of things, blogging hasn’t really been my greatest priority this past year.

Because underneath this silence, that has hung like a fog, so much life has happened. Twelve months that have passed by in a haze spent with a dear little boy we feel we have always known. Such a joyful time this has been for us three. And also such a time of learning & discovery. Becoming a parent is an enormous challenge for anyone. Becoming a parent when you suffer from a long term chronic illness makes things just that little more interesting.

So whilst much has had to be put on the back burner, just knowing this little place existed, was waiting patiently for me has been such a comfort. It’s been like an anchor, of sorts. Now one year on, it feels as if I am slowly emerging out of the fog of early motherhood.

And so I return to this little place.  A place to gather all my crafts together, to delight in slow & sustainable wool. Wool that’s been grown, gathered, spun & dyed in our mountains: hand-spun on spindle & wheel, dyed with plants, knitted on my needles.

More news to come, no doubt. But first a night of sleep. And then a mug of steaming rooibos tea. Lots of rooibos.